Page 8 of The Hive Queen

Hesitantly, he takes it and flips through it. Diagrams and conversion ratios fill the pages. “I was never good at science.”

“Don’t think of it as science.” I place a finger on one of the diagrams, stopping his random flipping. A circle with symbols creates a complex design on the page. “You know what this is.”

He frowns at the diagram. “I don’t know…”

“Break it down by pieces,” I instruct. “Reverse engineer it into its parts.”

As he studies the diagram, I return to the job at hand. Most of the books in this area of the library were found in the rubble after the Conservatory fell. I think Gwyneth was stashing them in her private quarters, but Xander has no interest in squirreling them away under his mattress.

Since we were expanding the library anyway, we added a back room for the more dangerous volumes that can be protected by a combination of modern technology and witchcraft.

I’ve also been buying grimoires that pop up online and scouring used bookstores, antique stores, and novelty shops for the real thing. Sometimes, I end up with a useless book. But after a witch mistook a gamebook for a spellbook and almost destroyed the ley lines, I take nothing for granted anymore.

Reese sucks in a sharp breath. “Is this to make diamonds?”

I turn to smile at him. “Indeed.”

“But…” His eyes drop to the page again. “The amount of energy it would take…”

“Equivalent exchange is the heart of alchemy.” I shrug. “Nowadays, we can make diamonds with machines, so using alchemy is pointless. But when that book was written, lab diamonds didn’t exist, and the author thought it worth the cost.”

Reese turns the page and frowns. “This is a pie recipe.”

“The author was also a baker.” I arch a brow. “But at its heart, baking is alchemy, don’t you think? A combination of specific ingredients turned into something completely different.”

Reese’s expression turns thoughtful. “Can I have this?”

I nod. “Just wear your protective gear if you decide to test some of them out.”

“It’s too distracting.” Reese slides off the stool and heads for the door, his attention fixed on the book. “Can’t feel what I’m doing.”

“You can’t regenerate fingers,” I remind him.

If he hears me, he doesn’t respond as he leaves the room.

I look down at my familiar. “Think that will give him a good direction? Or just end in an explosion?”

She cocks her ears forward.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about, too.” I turn back to the rest of the books. “But he needs a push.”

I just hope this push is in the right direction.

just like old times

- Pen -

After Captain Baileypulls his people out of the scene, it frees up Sharpe’s team to get to work. Flags pop up all over the car and surrounding area, and a flurry of pictures are taken before the techs work to get the body out of the car without it breaking in half.

Whatever blast took out the guy’s hips also took out most of his pelvis, and only flesh keeps the two pieces together.

While they struggle to get the body into the bag, junior detectives run interference at the barricade to keep people from taking pictures. The macabre curiosity that drives some to seek out crime scenes will never make sense to me. Perhaps it’s because I’ve died so many times that I know there’s nothing romantic about death. It’s dirty and often lonely.

One of Sharpe’s people takes discreet pictures of the looky-loos to add to the case file. If we’re lucky, the killer will be among those who lingered to watch the outcome. Murderers often get a thrill out of watching the buzz created by their actions. They’re attention seekers, even those who aren’t human.

A bee swoops near my face, and I reflexively swat it to the side. A second later, I feel a sharp sting on my neck and slap my hand over it. A fuzzy body grazes my palm, and I shudder with revulsion as I pull the dead body from my collar.

Sharpe comes to my side. “Did one of them get you?”

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